Margaret McPhee - Regency Desire - Mistress to the Marquis / Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

Irresistible. The same word Razeby always used. She did not want to hear it on Devlin’s lips. It felt wrong. As wrong as wearing this dress in any man other than Razeby’s company. But that was all the more reason to wear it. To take away its power. To take away his power over her. To prove once and for all there was nothing left between them, that there never had been, no matter how he looked at her.

‘You certainly know how to make a woman blush, Lord Devlin.’ She smiled.

He held out his elbow to her in invitation.

She ignored the unease that stroked like a feather against her skin, closed her ears to the doubts and the discomfort, and the nervousness that was jittering in her stomach. It might feel wrong but it was the right thing to do, she reassured herself. Besides, it was too late to change her mind. She had better just get on with it. Everything would be fine. This was not the place a marquis came to find a bride. With a smile she rested her fingers lightly against his arm and, holding her head up high, let Devlin lead her into the room from which the music was playing loud. Everything would be fine, she told herself again.

But the minute she walked through those doors she knew it was not.

On the opposite side of the dance floor stood Razeby.

Alice felt a sudden panic well up and threaten to spill over. The urge to turn around and run right back out that door almost overwhelmed her. She swallowed, forced herself to breathe, reined herself back under control.

It should not matter if he was here. It should not make the slightest difference. Indeed, maybe it was even for the best. That he would witness this ultimate show of denial. Denying her feelings. Denying him. Maybe he even deserved it, that taunt of what he had so thoughtlessly cast aside. She had almost convinced herself of it by the time Devlin led her over to him.

‘Razeby.’ Devlin bowed. ‘Did not think you would be here.’

‘Change of plan,’ Razeby replied and there was a coolness to his voice that stroked a warning down her spine.

Too many women, young, old and in between, were eyeing Razeby with a barely concealed interest. But Razeby seemed unaware and, notably, Miss Althrope was not by his side this evening. Indeed, there was no sign of a woman. Only Linwood.

Devlin’s smile was slightly stilted. ‘Not your usual scene.’

‘Nor yours,’ replied Razeby. He smiled, but there was something in the way he looked at Devlin, something almost threatening.

Devlin’s smile faded. ‘Miss Sweetly and I can certainly vouch for the quality of the champagne.’ He took a sip from his glass.

Alice said nothing. Her glass was still brimful, not one drop had passed her lips, even though her mouth was as dry as a bone and her pulse was thrumming in her throat.

It was just a dress, she told herself. But it was not.

She knew that.

And so did Razeby.

There was nothing of Razeby’s charm this evening, only a veneer of politeness so thin as to barely conceal a darkness and an intensity that made Linwood look positively light in comparison. She could feel the strain of the atmosphere between Razeby and Devlin, heavy with things that had nothing to do with friendship.

Devlin slid an arm around her waist, making her jump at his touch. ‘Does not Miss Sweetly look charming tonight?’ Spoken so politely, and yet there was that sense that he was deliberately baiting Razeby.

Razeby finally moved his gaze to her, letting his eyes wander from the green sparkle of her slippers, slowly up the silky green skirt, over her bodice and her breasts, until it finally met her own. Her heart was hammering harder than a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil, her pulse pounding so fast in her throat that she felt sick.

His gaze was long and cool, his mouth unsmiling. ‘Charming indeed. But it is not the word I would use.’

Irresistible. The word whispered between them, and all that had passed between them while she was wearing this dress was there in the room, making the nerves flutter all the more wildly in her stomach.

She tore her gaze away. Swallowed. Oh, Lord! She quailed at the challenge, longed only to walk away. But she knew she could not do that. So, instead, she breathed and she stood there.

‘Shall we dance, Miss Sweetly?’ Devlin smiled.

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said and she meant it. Anything to get her away from Razeby and that terrible sense of something brewing, and the feeling that she could not have got this more wrong. She forced a tight smile and let Devlin lead her onto the floor.

Devlin did not return them to Razeby and Linwood. And she did not look at Razeby again, just got on with the evening. Danced two dances with Devlin. Drank half a glass of champagne. Smiled. Pretended she was interested in what Devlin was saying, that she was not conscious for every second of Razeby and the fact that he did not once dance.

Razeby saw Alice the minute she came into the room. He saw the evening dress she was wearing—the emerald silk—and he understood her message too well.

By his side he knew Linwood was watching her, too. Every man and woman in the room was. How could they fail to? She was the celebrated Miss Sweetly and looked golden and radiant and downright irresistible.

He thought of the rows of fine silks and satins she had left hanging in her wardrobe in Hart Street, and of the diamond bracelet and cheque that she had turned her back on. He had not understood it at the time. But now he did. She had chosen her weapon well. Saved it. And now she wielded it, pointed and sharp as a stiletto blade.

Linwood murmured something, but his friend’s voice went as unheard as the music that played.

He watched Devlin lead her out on the floor. He knew he should go and claim a woman to dance with. Any woman. It would not matter. But he did not. He just stood there and watched Devlin handle her upon the dance floor, wearing that dress.

He could hear the beat of his own heart, the rhythmic thump so hard that it seemed to reverberate in his throat, through his bones, deafening in his ears.

She did not look at him. She did not need to.

And all of the past was whispering through him, taunting him as surely as she was.

Something inside of him felt dangerously close to snapping.

Alice sipped her champagne and let herself relax a little. They were halfway through the evening. She had got this far. She could manage the rest of it. Just about.

The notes of the next piece of music began, just those first few notes and her stomach sank and her blood turned to ice. And she was gripping the glass so tight that her knuckles shone white.

Fate could not be so cruel. Please God, let her be mistaken.

But the notes played on, blossoming into music, and there could be no mistake. She knew that music, knew that dance. The Volse. Their dance. Hers and Razeby’s.

Her heart faltered, stumbling over its beats.

‘Shall we dance, Miss Sweetly?’ Devlin’s voice was warm and close.

She felt frozen with horror. No! she wanted to say, categorically, unreservedly. No! It wasn’t supposed to be like this. ‘I’m only halfway through my champagne, Lord Devlin. We’ll dance the next one.’ She forced the smile to her lips.

‘Come, Miss Sweetly,’ he chided in a teasing tone. ‘Leave the champagne. I’ll buy you a bottle of the stuff when we come off the floor.’ And then to her horror he held his hand out in a gesture that was an obvious invitation on to the dance floor. Anyone that was looking would have known that he was asking her to dance.

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